Intermission
by Aliset
Summary: Missing scenes from various but not all TOS episodes
1. My Father's Reflection

Author's Note: The stories in this series were published a number of years ago under the pen name of Roisin Fraser. I am the original author of these stories. All creative content (c) 2009 by Aliset.

Rating: PG, TOS

Summary: The scene from "Balance of Terror" when the Romulan Commander is first seen. Told from Spock's POV

Intermission 1: My Father's Reflection

The Romulan's face wore my father's reflection.

I have heard, from one or another of my human crewmates, of the legend of the doppelganger, the exact, ghostly reflection of a living man. I had previously believed it to be another example of human illogic. If I believed it then, I no longer believe it now. Marked by lines of care and hardship which were never there on my father's face, the Romulan's face is still my father's.

The bridge crew stares at me, perhaps a distant relative of an enemy. Their emotions crash over and through me, and I know the fear and the mistrust. I was always an alien among them, but now I am that much closer to being the enemy. Styles, for one, believes that I am by association a spy. I meet his eyes and stare him down. I have earned my place here; if I am no longer my father's son, I am also not his reflection's spy.

Only Uhura and the captain act with anything like their usual professionalism. Her hand brushes mine as she hands me the tape of the Romulan transmission. I can tell she is uncertain, nervous with questions that she will not ask. Questions for which I do, and do not have, the answer.

How should I tell them of the Sundering? The Sundered were a legend of my childhood, a people who left us rather than stop the ceaseless fighting and brutality that was Vulcan before Surak. My father help to negotiate the peace treaty that ended the Romulan War; I cannot believe he did not have his suspicions as to their identity. The Lost, we called them, preferring not to find them. But they have been found, and now they hunt this ship.

I watch the captain even as he watches me, and the viewscreen. His questions I will answer, for now we stand poised on the brink of war again. I know from the glint in his eyes that there will be a reckoning, that he will have his answers.

***

The briefing has ended. We attack, to prevent a war. It was my counsel which argued for it, and the shame of that, a Vulcan arguing the necessity of violence, hits me at some deep level. But I am a Starfleet officer as well, and I know that if we show weakness, it will be the death of us. The Sundered will fight with the fierce skill in battle that is a part of our shared heritage, and they will never stop.

Styles alleged that I was withholding information, and this is partially true. I have not mentioned the Sundered, but I have admitted the kinship between us. The captain stops me as everyone else leaves for their battlestations. "What was that about, on the bridge?" he asks.

I feel shame again, that my emotional response was so obvious. But perhaps it was not; the captain is most perceptive for a human. "The Rihannsu commander closely resembled a relative of mine." Unthinking, I have used the name they called themselves when the Sundered still lived among us. Rihannsu, the Declared.

"Rihannsu, not Romulan?" he asks, a commander searching for every bit of tactical information.

I raise an eyebrow. "They were never Romulans, Captain."

He nods briefly. "What else do you know?"

And so I tell him what I could not say in the briefing. I tell him of the Sundered, of our own warrior ways long kept in check. I could not say all this in the briefing, for even to say as much as I have violates several of our most closely held traditions. But this man, this captain, understands the relevance of what I say. He folds his arms. "Thank you for your trust, Mr. Spock. Rest assured that I value it."

***

It is over. The Rihannsu commander destroyed himself and his ship rather than be captured. For now, the risk of war has lessened. We are back on patrol, and the debriefing on this incident is scheduled for tomorrow.

I am haunted, illogically, by the waste I saw in that cramped little bridge. The Rihannsu commander did not want the war he was assigned to start; I know it as clearly as if he had spoken. And now the Lost are found once again, but at what cost?

While he spoke to the captain through the smoke and the haze, the viewscreen was open both ways. For an instant, his eyes met mine, and I could see the shock there. He was my father's reflection; did I resemble his son?

THE END.


	2. The Apology

Disclaimer: Yep, Paramount owns them. They don't own this story. All original content (c) 2009 by Aliset

Rating: PG, TOS

Summary: From "The Naked Time" Events shortly after the Enterprise survives the Psi 2000 virus, told from the POV of Christine Chapel and Spock.

Intermission 2: The Apology

Roger. What am I going to tell Roger?

I'm not going to tell him anything, that's what. I can't, not about this. I joined Starfleet to find him, and when I do, I'm going to let this be an eternal secret.

Not four days ago, I told Spock I loved him. And maybe I do, in some secret corner of my heart, but it wasn't anything I would have told him. I wouldn't have done anything to upset him, or the emotional distance he works so hard to maintain. I don't know what's worse, that I infected him with this virus, or that I inflicted my emotions upon him.

We used to work together in the lab, he and I. I was trained as a research scientist before I went into medicine, and although he never said anything, I think he appreciated my competence. But those times may be gone forever; I can't even think of looking him in the eye after what I did to him.

Nyota came by earlier, once we'd safely cleared the system and things had gotten back to some semblance of normality. Sulu had just offered to take her to dinner the next time they were on shore leave, to apologize for the way he'd acted. "I think we'll be hearing a lot of apologies on this ship," she said, and I have to agree with her. But I don't know if apologies will be enough. People on this ship saw sides of each other they were never meant to see. How do you apologize for that?

I wish I could apologize to Spock for what I did, for the emotions I thrust upon him. But I don't know if that would be enough. I had a Vulcan roommate during medical school; I know how my outburst disturbed him. But I have to try.

***

I stop at his door, and press the buzzer.

The door slides open. He is sitting there without his uniform shirt, a slim figure in black. "Nurse Chapel," he says in greeting, and I can see that he is nervous around me. No surprise, that. I'm nervous around me too right now.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" I ask.

He shakes his head. I plunge forward. "I came here to apologize," I say.

"There is no need, " Spock says stiffly, clearly afraid of another emotional display. "If you will excuse me, Nurse---"

"I ask forgiveness," I say more forcefully, in his native language.

That stops his hasty retreat. "Indeed," he replies in the same language. "For what cause?"

It's been seven years or more since I spoke Vulcan with my roommate. Nevertheless, I do remember most of it. "I inflicted my emotions upon you. I gave you the virus. The cause was not sufficient."

One eyebrow arches. "The cause was sufficient. You are not responsible for what was said or done under the influence of the virus."

In the dim light, I can see the remains of what must have been a nasty bruise along his jawline. I wonder who gave that to him? The captain? I realize that he bears his scars, as we all do, from that virus, from the things we saw that were meant to remain hidden. "I'm not asking for a miracle," I say, returning to Standard. "But I would like to know that this won't affect our working relationship."

***

She has come to my cabin to apologize, yet another human custom I do not understand. How can I grant an apology for harm the nurse did not mean to inflict? We were neither of us in our right minds at the time.

Nurse Chapel told me she loved me. No woman has ever said that to me, and I think it likely that none ever will. My betrothal to T'Pring is an accomplished fact; in a few years, the bond will call me back to her who I do not know and will never love. There is no choice in the matter; this is the Vulcan heart, this is the Vulcan soul.

But if there was a choice…heya, there is no logic in debating in a vacuum. I know that the nurse is betrothed as well; it is part of the gossip that no one thinks I hear. I can tell that she regrets the words she spoke in Sickbay, and perhaps the best thing I can do for us is to let them be forgotten.

"Christine," I say, deliberately using her given name. "I find that I have some short-term memory loss. I cannot remember what was said in Sickbay."

Her eyes, the clear blue of my mother's, lighten somewhat. My statement has made her happy, and though I would try to deny it, this pleases me. Illogical, but true for all that. "Well, in that case, then, will you be needing my assistance in the lab tomorrow?"

I nod. She leaves, happier than when she came. I return to bed, only now realizing how the choice was lost before I ever knew I had one.

THE END.


	3. Girls in Space Be Wary

Disclaimer: Paramount/ViaBorg owns them. I own this story, and a whopping student loan debt. All original content (c) 2009 by Aliset.

Rating: PG, TOS

Author's note: This is the third story in the Intermission series. As you may have noticed, it takes place out of broadcast order. All I can say is, blame the folks who manufactured the DVD versions of these episodes, since that's what I'm going off of.

Summary: the Rec Room scene from "Charlie X," where Uhura is singing and Spock is playing his harp. Told from Uhura's viewpoint.

Intermission 3: Girls in Space Be Wary

This is how my day usually ends, especially when it's been a long day. I end up in the Rec Room, sometimes to have dinner with Christine or Janice, to play cards, or to simply socialize. And sometimes, I sing.

Everyone comes here, at one time or another. Even Spock. Lord, I was so surprised the first time I saw him here, back when Chris Pike commanded this ship. He was so shy, uncertain. At the time, he reminded me of my teenaged brother, wanting to fit in but so uncertain about how to do it. Then Jim Kirk and his chessboard came along, and all that changed. Now Spock comes here whether or not Jim is here. The chess he plays with Jim, or the doctor. And sometimes, he comes here to play his harp.

I tease him about it sometimes, about how it can't possibly be logical for him to be in the Rec Room. But I underestimate him, a mistake I think has probably been made before. He has a reason for everything. "Nyota"---Spock began calling me that when we began our harp lessons a few weeks ago---"it would not be logical for me to ignore the emotional well-being of this crew, even if I have no emotions myself."

I have heard him play his harp, heard the humor in his voice in his banter with the doctor or Jim. And I know that if this is not a lie, it's at least a strong misdirection. But I let it go.

Spock's tuning his harp now, that instrument which he told me has been in his family for generations. I know that there are famous mathematicians in his family, and an equal number of musicians. Hearing his skill, I am not surprised.

But tonight, his harp isn't cooperating. They can be devilishly difficult to tune, and he's having problems with it. I hum a few bars to indicate where the pitch should be, and he stops.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm doing it again," I say. Spock gives me his patented "I'm not really smiling at you, but I am" look, and tries again. This time the notes come more in pitch. Janice darts a glance at me over her cards. The notes he's pulling out of thin air are from a pub song I brought back from Starbase 15 several weeks ago. I've changed the words since then; that's what sailors and singers do.

His eyebrow rises. I know that look; he's daring me to begin. Daring me…who would have thought our calm, logical Vulcan had it in him? I glance at him over my drink; the notes from the harp are starting to take on the more familiar rhythms of the song I brought back. Only, he doesn't know how I've changed the words.

I never would have thought of teasing a Vulcan before this, but this is one I can't pass up. I lift my voice and begin to sing.

_On the starship Enterprise_

_There's someone who's in Satan's guise_

_Whose devil ears and devil eyes_

_Could rip your heart from you._

There's laughter in the Rec Room, and maybe in some hidden corner of Spock's soul, there's laughter as well. He rolls his eyes, the look that usually has "illogical" spoken right after it. Except that he's still playing.

_At first his look could hypnotize_

_And then his touch would pulverize_

_His alien love could victimize_

_And rip your heart from you._

Bless him, Spock's being a good sport about all of this. I've known for quite some time that he has a wry sense of humor, as Bones has found out on more than one occasion. It's nice to know he can take it as well as he gives it.

_Girls in space be wary, be wary, be wary_

_Girls in space be wary_

_You know not what he'll do._

As I finish the song, Janice's shadow, Charlie, walks in. Nothing spreads faster than gossip aboard a starship, and everyone knows that he has a terrible crush on her. Janice tried to set him up with another yeoman who was closer to his age, but he only has eyes for Janice.

Ah, I remember seventeen. Being fixated on one person and thinking you would die if you didn't get to date them, and then finding out that it wasn't really worth the effort after all. Poor boy, he's so serious all the time. Spock smiles more than that child does. And there's something else odd about him; his non-verbal communication is all wrong. I'm a communication officer, and I know he's hiding something.

But no place is more receptive to people with secrets than Starfleet. We all have them: Spock, who will not speak of his family, Jim, who survived the massacre on Tarsus IV, and will not speak of what happened there, and Bones, who does not speak of his ex-wife but talks about his daughter all the time. So if Charlie has a secret, it's not so unusual. But it sure would be nice to see that boy smile once in a while.

Spock's still pulling the notes out of the air with his usual skill. So I sing again, hoping to get a smile out of that lonely child.

_And from a planet out in space_

_Comes a lad not commonplace_

_Seeking out his first embrace_

_He's saving it for you…_

My eyes meet Janice's. I'm teasing her too in a way, but I know she doesn't mind. Charlie can't seem to decide what his reaction is; he's trying to get Janice's attention with the cards he's holding while keeping one ear on my song.

_Oh, Charlie's our new darling_

_Our darling, our darling_

_Charlie's our new darling_

_We know not what he'll do._

Charlie's looking at me with that steely blue gaze, and my throat closes up. I can still breathe, but I can't draw enough air to sing. Spock's harp has fallen silent; though he touches the strings, no sound comes out.

I know all at once that Charlie's hiding something much more than a secret, if he can do this. Dear God, what have we brought aboard this ship?

THE END


	4. No Logical Alternative

Disclaimer: ParaBorg owns 'em. All original content (c) 2009 by Aliset

Rating: PG, TOS

Summary: From "The Corbomite Maneuver," the stand-off scene on the bridge, with four minutes and counting. Told from Spock's POV

**Intermission 4: No Logical Alternative**

"Four minutes," the alien voice drones. Four minutes until we die, or so Balok has promised.

The human emotions around me are so strong I can sense them through my shielding, smell the sharp tang of emotions which are utterly foreign to me. Fear, despair, and anger crash over me, but the hot bright flash of anger dominates above all else.

Unusual, these humans. A Vulcan would simply accept what is. When all other logical alternatives are played out, there is no other alternative but to accept. Kaiidth, we say. What is, is.

Anger serves no useful purpose; it is illogical to deny what must be.

The source of the anger comes toward me where I am gazing at the viewscreen, at the ship which means our doom. The captain, who told me after Gary Mitchell's death to call him Jim. It is a liberty none of my previous commanders granted, and I still wonder that he did so. The air pushes out in front of him as he paces.

He is furious with Balok; it takes no special telepathy on my part to read this. Furious that Balok would deny a crew of 432 their right to existence, furious that Balok misread the intentions of a peaceful ship, and furious that he cannot think of away to remove us from this situation.

Even now, I do not know what makes me say it. Would my mother understand? Perhaps. "Jim," I say.

The captain comes toward me again in his pacing. "What's the matter out there? Surely they know we mean them no harm."

I raise an eyebrow. What we meant is almost certainly irrelevant, at least to Balok. "They must certainly know by now that we are incapable of it."

"There must be something to do, something I've overlooked." His frustration is almost palpable, and I want only to tell him that he has done the logical thing, tried every logical alternative. If we die now, it is through no fault of his. "In chess when one is outmatched, the game is over. Checkmate."

The hot flash of fury is not directed solely at Balok, not anymore. Hazel eyes darken in anger. "Is that your best recommendation?"

Strangely, I cannot meet his eyes. The words that almost come out of my mouth are the first words my human mother taught me to say, when offense is given. I look him in the eyes, willing him to understand. "I'm sor--I regret that I can offer no logical alternative."

He stalks away from me then, and I know that my words have not persuaded him that acceptance of the situation is logical. I have failed; I have not given him the answers he sought. I am unaccountably chilled, for reasons I do not understand. The ship is certainly no colder than usual.

The doctor comes onto the bridge. He converses with the captain in a low voice, one which I cannot help but overhear, but it is a conversation I ignore. The captain's response, however, I cannot ignore. "Any time you can bluff me, Doctor!!" Everyone turns to look at him. It is not like the captain to express his anger so loudly or so openly. But the conversation has, apparently, sparked something else in his mind.

"Three minutes," Balok drones. Almost no time for alternatives now.

Jim looks over at me, and the spark in his eyes is back in his eyes, the spark of a human about to make an intuitive leap. "Not chess, Mr Spock. Poker."

***

'Corbomite,' he called it. In any language, it is still a bluff, a bluff which saved our lives.

We have left the Fesarius, with its odd child-captain and Bailey aboard. I am in my cabin, and though I try to sleep, I cannot. I know that I failed my captain on the bridge, but it is the fact that I failed him by being logical that disturbs me. I am a Vulcan. I acted as I should, but I also should have had some answer other than the one I gave him.

The door buzzer bleeps. "Come," I say.

Jim comes in. "Am I bothering you?" he asks.

The thought crosses my mind that I was the one who bothered him earlier. "No, you are not."

Jim sits in the chair by the desk. "I came to apologize.".

I was prepared for any other response, but not this one. "I do not understand."

"I demanded something from you that you didn't know how to give. You gave me the best advice you could, and I was angry with you for not pulling a rabbit out of your hat."

"A rabbit? Out of my hat?" I ask. Now I am confused. I have seen a rabbit. I have seen a hat, although I do not own one. But why one should be pulled out of the other, I do not understand.

Jim laughs then. "It's just a figure of speech, Spock. What I meant was, I expected you to come up with a miracle."

I should be reassured by this explanation, but I am not. My reasons for accepting Balok's decree were logical, but it was his illogical bluff which saved us. How can I argue with logic like his? He continues, "Look, we're probably going to have this discussion again. So let me just say this: I know what you said was logical, but I don't want you to give up like that."

Only then do I see, really see, what my logical acceptance of the situation had looked like to the captain. "I see," I say, and it is the truth. "I was not giving up, but I could see no logical alternative."

Jim nods. He holds up a small paper box; I recognize it immediately as a deck of cards. "Well, I'll try to help you learn to think of illogical alternatives." Mischief is clear in the hazel eyes. "Care for a game of poker?"

THE END.


	5. Sticks and Stones

Disclaimer: All hail ParaBorg, cause they own them and I don't. For the background of Yeoman Janice Rand, I have, ahem, appropriated Vonda McIntyre's Enterprise: The First Adventure…without permission, though hopefully without offense. All creative content (c) 2009 by Aliset

This story was prompted by a sighting of Extremely!Sexist!Spock in "The Enemy Within," where he implies that Yeoman Rand had asked for/encouraged her attempted rape. Those who own a copy of the episode may wish to refer to it.

Summary: From "The Enemy Within." Spock learns the power of words, among other things. Told from Uhura's viewpoint in the first and last sections, and Spock's in the second section.

Rating: PG, TOS

Intermission 5: Sticks and Stones

"The impostor did have several…interesting characteristics, wouldn't you agree, Yeoman?"

The words fall like stones in my cabin. Janice is setting on the bed, recounting her ordeal at the hands of the impostor. It doesn't help that she, like many other women on board, has a crush on Jim Kirk. Nor does it help that his alter ego, the wolf Kirk, tried to rape her. But the final blow came with Spock's words, and now she sits, sobbing on my bed.

Janice is little more than a child herself. After surviving a series of disasters, a fortunate miscalculation of her actual age allowed her to enter Starfleet. Though by all rights she should be in her early twenties, she's actually only eighteen. She's too young for what happened, too young to blow off Spock's words as anything more than an insensitive error on his part. And she's far too young to realize that nothing she did caused the attempted rape.

Finally, her sobs quiet. "I…I kept wondering if I'd encouraged him. I mean, he is the captain after all…" Her words trail off, and I hear what she doesn't say. She's in love with Jim, the first man who ever treated her as an equal, and the way he came to her must surely be the cruelest blow of all.

"Janice," I say. "It wasn't your fault. None of this was your fault." It's hard to say the words, to speak of the captain as if he were an animal. But that is the face the wolf-Kirk showed Janice, and although Jim offered to stand for court-martial, I don't know if the image of the wolf-Kirk, leering and savage, will ever completely leave her mind.

The lights have dimmed slightly, in deference to the lateness of the hour. "Do you want me to stay with you?"

Janice shakes her head, looking much younger than her actual age. "I'll be fine, Nyota." She smiles at me slightly through her tears. "And thank you."

I nod, respecting her choice. As I walk down the hallway, I know that I have to talk to Spock about this. I have to make him see the effects of his words.

-----////----

The next chance I have to talk to him comes during our weekly harp lesson. He has been teaching me to play the ka'athera for some time now. Tonight, we are supposed to work our way through the end of the first movement, but a phrase in one of the measures stops me repeatedly. It's not the notes that are difficult, but the meter, and I watch as Spock puts his own harp down to show me how to play the notes in the correct rhythm by using an alternate technique which can make the rhythm smoother.

I often wonder just how strong a telepath he is. He stops four inches away from my hands to look at me curiously. "Is something bothering you, Nyota?"

_Yes_, I want to say. I want to ask him how someone who is half-human can ask the question he asked Janice, implying that she had encouraged the rape attempt. I know that neither the captain nor the doctor know what he said to her; Janice decided not to include it in her report of the incident. And I seriously doubt she mentioned it in her mandatory counseling after the incident. So in all likelihood, unless I talk to him about this, the probability is that no one will.

I look at him, Vulcan-serious and not, for all his logical demeanor, completely insensitive. I place the ka'athera back on its stand. "I need to speak with you about something that happened when Captain Kirk's alter ego…escaped."

He tilts his head a little in a gesture that always reminds me of an alert bird. "Specify."

Ah, there it is, the tone of Vulcan logic and impassivity. I need to get past that, I need to find some way to make him understand how he made her feel. "Janice Rand's attempted assault."

One eyebrow lifts. "I understand that she has declined to file charges against the captain."

I shake my head. "That's not what I'm talking about. I'm referring to a comment you made to Yeoman Rand."

I don't need to explain any further; his understanding is clear in the set of his shoulders as he looks at me. "I see. You believe I acted improperly."

I nod. "Yes, but there's more to it than that." I look at him; clearly he is uncomfortable discussing any aspect of the incident. I don't particularly blame him; it was hard on all of us to see that side of the captain.

He raises one eyebrow at me, and I am suddenly at a loss for words. But though words have failed me, the necessity of action has not. In the twentieth century, they called this "sensitivity training," but all I can think now is, gods, I hope he'll forgive me for this.

****

Her hand brushes my collar. For an instant, I cannot fathom what she is doing. Nyota is one of the few people besides Jim to even attempt to touch me, but the way she is touching me is not like those other times. This touch is strangely intimate, not at all like the brushing of her hands against mine when we repair cracked circuit boards, or the touch of her hands under mine during one of our harp lessons.

I fight the urge to flinch away from that strangely invasive touch. One cool human hand rests against the back of my neck. "What's the matter?" she asks softly, and the tone is one I have never heard her use. It is rough with an emotion that none has used to me, but I have heard it from the mouths of human couples. Desire, and lust, barely restrained.

I tighten my shields against the insistency of her touch, even as my mind argues for the very implausibility of this situation. Nyota Uhura, one of my first human friends, behaving in such a fashion? I try to regain some control over the situation. "Lieutenant, perhaps we should continue this lesson at another time." The sense of dull panic rises sharp in my throat.

"Oh, come on. You know you want me to."

I pull back and stare at her. "I know no such thing."

One of her hands brushes lightly against one of the meld points on my face in a manner that is far more suggestive than she perhaps realizes. It falls under the category of things protected under Privacy, but this touch is the beginning of foreplay among Vulcans. How she knows of it, I have no idea, but I do not desire such contact with her. But I do not know if I can stop her without causing some serious physical damage. I try once again to reason with her. "Nyota, I do not desire this contact. Please leave before I call security."

She laughs lightly, a sound that is nothing like her usual laugh. The sound of a hunter, capturing the prey. "And who do you think they would believe? I'm in *your* cabin, at *your* request. And you outrank me."

Were I human, I suspect I would now be shaking. The rules against non-fraternization between individuals in the same chain of command have ended many careers in the years I have been in Starfleet, and I realize that the situation as it stands would be looked at askance. If she decided to file charges of sexual assault, something that she is clearly threatening, my career would be over. And I have no other place to go; Vulcan is no home for me, if indeed it ever was.

Nyota steps behind me and begins massaging my shoulders. "You're so tense, you can't wait, can you?" I close my eyes against a renewed feeling of panic; I do not want to experience her emotions so directly, but it is becoming impossible to block them. When one of her hands moves to unseal the fastening of my shirt, I bolt straight up and grab her hands in a grip I know must be bruising her. The anger makes my vision green, and I am appalled to realize that I no longer care whether I hurt her or not. She is my friend, why can she not realize that I do not want her like this? "Stop. I do not want you like this."

She sits down heavily in the chair I have vacated. "Now, do you see?"

***

As I watch, his coloring fades from its usual pale green color. He looks as though he were about to be ill. Small wonder. Spock, my friend, who I have just assaulted. I rub my wrists; I will have some nasty bruising there come morning, but it's nothing the uniform sleeves won't hide.

"That's how you made Janice feel. Like she was being assaulted all over again." Right now I want nothing more than to run away to my cabin and wash the residue of what I have done to him off my hands, but I have to make sure he understands.

The eyes opposite mine are dark with emotion, emotions he is profoundly ill-equipped to deal with. "You might have just said so."

I shake my head. "Would you have understood, if I had? Some things, you have to experience to understand why you need to empathize."

Spock makes a valiant attempt to return his voice to its normal impassivity. "I see. And it is your contention that I lacked empathy in my conversation with Yeoman Rand."

I nod. "You are second-in-command of a ship where the majority of personnel are human. From a human perspective, then, you did not handle the situation in a manner which was appropriate. She had narrowly escaped being raped by a man she trusted, and you implied that she had actively encouraged the assault."

"I was in error," he says simply. "I am unused to dealing with such incidents, and I did not choose my words carefully." He walks over to the cabin door, the Vulcan mask firmly in place. "I will apologize to Yeoman Rand immediately, of course. " The face is blank, but the message in his eyes is clear: he understands, and does not blame me for the understanding.

The next day, Janice comes into my cabin for our weekly poker game. She's still pretty shaken up, but there's a new lightness in her eyes. "Spock came and apologized to me today."

I continue shuffling the cards. "Oh, really? What did he have to say?"

Janice smiles a little, a girl barely on the edge of adulthood. "Just that he now understands how much his words must have hurt me, and that he did not mean to imply anything." Her face grows serious. "I wonder why he apologized. From what I've heard of Mr Spock, he never apologizes for anything."

I begin dealing the cards. "Maybe he apologized because it was the logical thing to do. Aces high, deuces wild…"

The end.


	6. Underneath My Lucid Skin

Intermission 6: Underneath My Lucid Skin

Disclaimer: The Usual. ParaBorg owns 'em. They don't own this story, or its original content. Neener, neener. All original content (c) 2009 by Aliset

Summary: From "Dagger of the Mind," the mind-meld scene.

Rating: PG, TOS

"The ice is thin, come on dive in

Underneath my lucid skin

The cold is lost, forgotten

Hours pass, days pass, time stands still

Light gets dark and darkness fills my secret heart…forbidden"

---Sarah McLachlan

"Ice"

---///---

McCoy pulls me aside as I watch the unconscious form of Van Gelder. "We need to talk. I don't think Van Gelder's mad, at least not in the sense we were led to believe, and if he's not, then Jim could be in real danger."

I think of all of Van Gelder's ravings as I have heard them: the neural neutralizer, allegations of abuse in the penal colony. The ravings seem to focus on Dr Adams, who was Van Gelder's colleague, and whom the captain and Dr Noel have beamed down to investigate. "I concur," I say simply.

"Well, what are you planning to do about it?" McCoy blusters angrily. "Don't agree with me, do something!"

I have known the doctor for long enough to hear the very real concern under his volatility. "What do you suggest?" I ask, ignoring the anger that crashes at my shielding. The concern is, after all, one I share.

The doctor sighs then. "I don't know. We have to have some way of knowing if Van Gelder's telling the truth. In his condition, I don't dare use truth drug; he's got enough chemicals in his bloodstream without me adding to it. And there's some sort of mental block that prevents him from answering questions, so using verifier scan is out." He hesitates then, gaze sharpening in a way that makes me distinctly uneasy for no reason I can identify. "Isn't there some Vulcan technique to tell if someone's lying or delusional?"

The mind-meld. _Vehlin-at,_ the merger of souls. For a Vulcan, one of the most hidden aspects of our telepathic life. I can still hear T'Pau's flinty voice as she instructed me in its use: "This thing is not for the gaze of outworlders. Do not disgrace us."

I return McCoy's gaze evenly. "I assume it is the mind-meld you are referring to, Doctor?"

The growing storm of the doctor's anger brushes against my shielding, strong enough almost to smell. "I don't care what it's called. Will it work?" He does not understand; he misinterprets my reluctance for cowardice, when it is something far other. To save Jim, to find out the truth, I would risk far more than a mind-meld.

It is not that which causes me to hesitate. If Van Gelder is actually mad, the probability is high that I will be drawn into his madness. But mad though he may be, Van Gelder is also human, and what causes me to hesitate is the factor McCoy cannot know about. The vehlin-at, the mind meld, is a telepathic link born of an emotional bond, one mind to another. Van Gelder is a stranger to me, and he is human. The perilous intimacy and the storm of Van Gelder's emotions in the mind-meld could easily overwhelm me. And I have never done this before, not with a human.

There is need. I cannot refuse, when it is my captain and my friend at risk, when there are countless others who might be endangered if any of Van Gelder's allegations are true. I gather myself, seeking the center that I may find the inner resources to initiate the meld. Shadows on the sand, coolness of water on a desert breeze I close my eyes, and slowly lower my shields. And am reminded, instantly, of why Vulcans maintain shields: the storms of emotion in this room, McCoy's concern and impatience, Van Gelder's heightened agitation, crash over and through me.

I know the doctor does not understand; we have never gotten to the point, he and I, where understanding might be possible or likely. "It is a deeply personal thing among Vulcans," I say.

***

Damn that Vulcan, why is he delaying? If he can find out the truth, why doesn't he just do something? "Will it work?" I ask again; he didn't answer before.

The look he gives me makes me wish I hadn't spoken. I've never seen him look so…alien. That's an odd thing to say, coming from a doctor, but it's true. There's something indefinably different about him now; a shift in body language, perhaps. Or maybe it's the look in his eyes. Whatever it is, there is little human about him now.

Spock moves purposefully towards Van Gelder and I relax slightly. I know, though I can't say how, that Spock would prefer I leave him alone with Van Gelder. I meet his look with my own, wondering if he can read my thoughts. _I'm a doctor. I'm not leaving him alone in my Sickbay_.

Spock seems to sense this. "It will require I make certain pressure changes. It will not affect you. It is not hypnosis." I nod, though I really don't understand how the mind-meld works. The only Vulcan I knew before Spock, one of my classmates in medical school, had not even told me this much.

Van Gelder consents to the meld. It's one of the many clues I have that he may not be as mad as Dr Adams led us to believe; a man with Van Gelder's illness shouldn't be capable of giving consent to anything or anyone. But his speech is clear, if a little ragged, and he obviously understands what Spock is saying. "You must," Van Gelder says.

When Spock touches Van Gelder, his agitation level begins to subside almost immediately. The words Spock speaks are so low, I almost can't hear them above the steady beeping of the med-panel. "My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts." Spock's long hands touch Van Gelder right above the cranial nerve pathways, and his voice begins to assume some of Van Gelder's cadences.

I have a sudden insight: was it this that caused Spock to hesitate? The thought of being trapped forever within the mind of a madman? I didn't know, but maybe I should have. Me and my big mouth.

"I begin to feel a strange euphoria," Spock says now, and Van Gelder's voice, free of pain for the first time, mutters, "Yes."

***

A mind-meld between Vulcans can be as simple as an exchange of information, or as complex as the full marriage bond of adults. Our minds are trained almost from birth to accept the presence of another mind, to receive and, one day, to initiate a meld. Though the process is far from simple, there is a certain order to it, the ritual unchanged throughout millennia.

Whatever else may be said about my meld with Van Gelder, "order" is not the term I would use to describe it. His thoughts are chaos itself, dark winds scattered on the paths of his mind. I can sense, a little, that it was not always this way, that his mind was ordered and quite disciplined for a human. But that was before his illness, before Dr Adams and the neural neutralizer.

There are huge blocks around certain areas of his mind, blocks which are artificial. Most of them have to do with his work at the Tantalus Colony. //Could you think of these things before?// I ask him. I need to make sure I am perceiving this accurately. I see patients with sick minds, patients who had been rejected by every other penal facility in the Federation. I see Van Gelder, whole and healthy, cajoling the patients into taking their treatments and treating them with kindness and concern. The healing energy, the fierce determination that none should suffer if it is in his power to correct it, fairly vibrates off of him.

There is a slight mind-laugh, one that is free of madness and dementia. //It was my life, my work on the colony. To heal that which is broken, isn't that what every doctor wants?//

I had not thought of it, but the only doctor I know is McCoy. I see that there are similarities between Van Gelder and McCoy; that fierce compassion in McCoy has expressed itself through his squabbling with me. Perhaps it is time to reevaluate my opinion of the doctor. It is a thought to be considered for later, but now…//May I move through the blocks? It might be painful.//

Van Gelder's assent is clear. //If you don't, I will remain as I am now. Not much of a choice// I do what I can to mitigate the pain caused by the removal of the blockages. The images in his mind are coming more defined now: Dr Adams, the years of working together as colleagues, the promise of the neural neutralizer, to heal minds seemingly broken. And then the discovery of Dr Adams' misuse of that technology. The quiet report that was never sent, the feeling of fear as strong arms strapped him into the chair, the devastating emptiness of not knowing when the mind's betrayal will come.

Van Gelder is not mad. //I apologize for the intrusion, Dr Van Gelder.// And slowly, I withdraw from the link.

My knees buckle when the meld is over. McCoy catches me by the arm and steers me to a chair. "Are you all right?"

It is all I can do to form the response; the mind-meld can be exhausting. "I will recover, Doctor. How is Van Gelder?"

The doctor looks at the med-panel, and back at me. His astonishment is plain to read. "Spock, I don't know how to say this, but he's cured. Whatever you did fixed the damage. He'll need some residual treatment, but he's going to be fine." He looks at my face, seeing, perhaps, an emotion I would have denied. "Jim's in trouble, isn't he?"

I nod. There is not much time to waste.

***

The captain and Dr Noel returned, free from harm except for one implanted memory. Dr Adams died, and Van Gelder returned to the colony for the last of his treatment. Van Gelder thanked me before he left for what I had done. One does not thank logic, but still…"I wish you peace and long life," I said to him before he left. He will return now, to his work, and to his own destiny.

I returned to my cabin after he left, to meditate on what I had learned. I was just entering the second level of meditation when the door buzzer rang. It was McCoy. "I'm sorry, am I disturbing you?"

"No," I replied. "Come in."

McCoy looked at the floor and then back at me, as if he suddenly lacked words or the breath to speak them. That is an unusual condition in my experience of him; what is it that makes him so nervous? "Spock, I, uh…Oh, hell, I'm just gonna say it. I'm sorry."

I raised one eyebrow; this is the last thing I would have expected. "I do not understand."

The doctor's blue eyes, clear and direct, met my own. "I didn't realize what I was asking of you, what you were risking by melding with Van Gelder. I should have thought about it before I asked it of you."

"The cause was sufficient, Doctor. The captain and Dr Noel have returned safely. There was no other option."

"Maybe, but…I thought you were a coward for not acting quicker. If I'd known what was involved in the vehlin-at, I would have known better." I realized with a start that he has used the Vulcan word for the mind meld. He has researched.

"It is done. There is no need for an apology."

"Look, you green-blooded son of an elf, I'm trying to apologize! Can't you just accept it for once without relying on your damnable logic?"

Once, before the meld with Van Gelder, I would have been offended and confused by such an outburst. But now I understood at least some of what was behind it. Van Gelder was healed by the meld, but the exchange was equal. I understood through the meld what motivated Van Gelder, and McCoy, to heal others: compassion and a hatred for suffering. McCoy was trying to heal the wound between us, and by refusing his apology, I have denied that part of him. Curious, the places where insights come.

I thought of a saying from my planet. "May our understandings be many and our wars be few." This is one war I can stop. "I accept your apology, Doctor. Would you like to learn more about the vehlin-at?"

THE END


	7. Of Cheat and Charmer

Intermission 7: Of Cheat and Charmer

Disclaimer: ParaBorg owns the whole damn thing, but I own the original content of this story. Neener, neener. Original content © 2009 by Aliset

Special thanks to Mary Ellen Curtin, whose comments about Intermission 6 inspired me to try and spackle this story in the way that I have. My gratitude to T'Thelaih and Editrix for sounding-board duties beyond the call. And thanks also to Alwyn, who didn't know why I was asking about command ranks in the Navy, but who gave me the benefit of her experience anyway.

Summary: From "The Galileo Seven," the scene just before Spock jettisons the fuel.

Rating: PG, TOS

"I to my perils

Of cheat and charmer

Came clad in armor

By stars benign.

Hope lies to mortals

And most believe her

But man's deceiver

Was never mine."

---A.E. Housmann

"I to My Perils"

---///---

The ache in my leg throbs dully as I look at the chronometer. By jettisoning the boosters, I have ensured that we have, at best, another forty-five minutes of life before the shuttlecraft re-enters the atmosphere. Forty-five minutes of circling the planet, waiting for a rescue which will likely never come.

I had asked my father once, long ago, how he knew my mother was angry. In one of our rare moments of communication, he had replied that he could smell it in the air. I did not understand it then, but I do now. The air inside the shuttlecraft is thick and sharp with mistrust and anger, emotions which the others do not trouble to hide from me. It has been that way since we crashed on the planet, and I am at a loss to understand it. Surely they would not have spoken to Jim in such manner.

McCoy mutters from behind me. "Well, Mr Spock, so ends your first command." The comment is barbed, like much of his words to me. Were I human, I suppose I would remind him that many of his actions since we landed on Taurus II have crossed into insubordination, but it is not logical to do so when our lives are near their end.

Instead, I reply, "Yes, my first command." Jim had been rather surprised to find out that I had never commanded a ship before, due to an earlier Starfleet policy which kept those in the Science Division out of the list of command specialties. The policy had ended shortly after my graduation from Starfleet Academy, but the gap between my rank and my actual command experience remained. This mission had been Jim's attempt to remedy the gap.

I think I now understand the concept of irony. The crew trusts him as they do not trust me, looking to me to save their lives but quite confident that I have no real idea as to how to accomplish it. Which is only the truth, for all my logical alternatives have brought us here, to this orbit around a barren planet with another 42.5 minutes of life. And yet, I cannot take refuge in logical alternatives as easily as I once could. There has to be another way, some way to signal to the Enterprise that we are still out here.

The logical part of my mind insists that Jim must have already left for the colony. But I also know, as surely as Vulcan's sands are red, that Jim has never left a member of his crew behind. I cannot think he would change that policy now. The belief isn't logical, but it is the only alternative left to me.

My gaze falls on the fuel gauge. The fuel is the only thing guaranteeing our life---or at least, what remains of it. If I jettison it now, we will have only six minutes left---but we will also have lit a signal flare, visible from a long distance. I do not discuss my decision with the others; I do not doubt they would concur eventually, but not without precious minutes lost to arguing.

I push the fuel button down, jettisoning the fuel. The shuttlecraft rocks with the force of its release, and the others gather around me. "Mr Spock!" Scott says, and I am surprised. I would have thought that he, above all the others, would have realized why I have done this. "He's jettisoned the fuel!"

"How much longer do we have?" This from Boma, who probably should have been brought up on charges of insubordination long ago.

Scott glances at the chronometer, slowly ticking away our last hope at rescue. "Six minutes, maybe less."

I meet the glare of the doctor and Boma, and stare them down. They back off slowly. I turn to find Scott watching me. There is something in his eyes I had not seen before: a dawning hope. Have I done this? With my illogical action that owes nothing to my Vulcan heritage? It is a thought worth considering later, assuming we get out of this.

Scott smiles then. "A distress signal? Like sending up a flare. Mr Spock, that was a good gamble. Perhaps it was worth it."

I shake my head as the reality of our situation encroaches once again. "No one out there to see it."

The last of the fuel, by my calculations, should have run out. As if to confirm it, Scott says quietly, "Orbit decaying, Mr Spock. Ten seconds to atmosphere."

McCoy's voice, free of scorn for the first time since this mission began, speaks from behind me. "It may be the last action you ever take, Mr Spock. And it was all human."

I glance at the chronometer before speaking. It won't be long now. I am not irritated by what the doctor has said, but puzzled as to why my illogical action should make any difference in how he speaks to me. "Totally illogical. There was no chance."

I can hear the smile in McCoy's voice. "That's exactly what I mean."

The shuttlecraft begins to buck as we begin to enter the atmosphere. Smoke from ruptured relays begins to fill the cabin, and it is only then that I feel the first tingle of dematerialization.

Against all logic, we were seen.

***

My mother has a saying that "no good deed ever goes unpunished." Like many of her Terran metaphors, its meaning eluded me until I actually began to live among humans. That particular expression comes to my mind now as I begin my duties on the bridge.

There is something almost merry in Scott's expression, something that puts me on my guard. The fact that almost the same expression is in Uhura's eyes, and the captain's, and the doctor's, makes me aware that my illogical decision will not go unremarked. I cannot honestly say that I mind. If there is to be a reckoning, as I suspect, at least I am alive to experience it.

As I expected, the doctor and the captain come near me once I sit down at the science station. "Mr Spock," Jim says, "there's really something I don't understand, and maybe you can explain it to me. Logically, of course."

I nod for him to continue. "When you jettisoned the fuel and ignited it, you knew there was virtually no chance of being seen, and yet you did it anyhow. Now, that would seem to me to be an act of desperation."

The bantering tone in his voice alerts me that the reckoning will not be long in coming. Nevertheless, I can find no fault with what he says. If it was an act of human desperation rather than Vulcan logic, the result is, at least, indisputable. "Quite correct, Captain."

"Now, we're all aware, and I'm sure the doctor would agree with me, that desperation is a highly emotional state of mind. How does your well-known logic explain that?"

His tone is bantering, affectionate, and his relief at our return was almost palpable. Curious, how I have learned to read human emotions---but there is still so much I do not understand. I have to think a moment before I can explain it in the way that Jim expects. "Quite simply, Captain. I examined the problem from all angles, and saw that it was plainly hopeless."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Uhura, trying not to laugh. Perhaps if I were fully human, I would be laughing too; I know the explanation is not in the slightest bit believable. "Logic informed me that under the circumstances, the only possible action would have to be one of desperation. A logical decision, logically arrived at." I am not used to bantering, but there is something curiously reassuring in it. If nothing else, it reminds me that I have a home here, with these people, on this ship.

"Uh-_huh_," Jim says, in a way that tells me he finds my explanation about as plausible as I do. "You mean you reasoned it was time for an emotional outburst?"

I am caught, and I know it, but I do not mind. There is no dishonor in being caught when the outcome was known from the start. "Well, I…wouldn't put it in precisely those terms, Captain, but those are essentially the facts."

The captain comes closer, and the tone is the same one he uses when he defeats me at chess, against all logic. He puts an arm around the back of my chair, and I do not feel his nearness disquieting. "You're not going to admit that for the first time in your life, you committed a purely human emotional act?"

I fold my arms and raise an eyebrow at him. I shake my head. "No, sir."

The captain begins to laugh, as does the doctor. Another of my mother's human expressions enters my mind: "They're not laughing at you, they're laughing near you." I understand, as I never thought I could. I do understand.

Jim stops laughing briefly. "Mr Spock, you're a stubborn man."

I cannot dispute this either. If it were not so, perhaps I would not be alive to discuss it. "Yes, sir."

The suppressed laughter explodes on the bridge. I do not mind.

I am home.

THE END


	8. Must I Leave Thee?

**Intermission 8: Must I Leave Thee?**

Disclaimer: Yep, Paramount is God. God does not own everything, including the original content of this story. All original content ©2009 by Aliset.

Summary: The transporter room scene from "This Side of Paradise," where Spock is saying goodbye to Leila

Rating: PG for angst, TOS, S, f,

"Must I leave thee, Paradise?"

---John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

---///---

I am almost finished with the subsonic transmitter when the incoming hail sounds. "Enterprise, Spock here," I say. I do not need to ask who it is. It is well past the time I said I would return and Leila must surely be worried.

Her voice, soft and feminine, drifts over the speakers. "It's Leila. I borrowed the doctor's communicator. I was worried something might have happened to you."

I breathe out once. "You are all right, aren't you?" she continues.

"Yes, yes, I'm…quite well." It is not the first lie I have told her. But that is her strength: to expect, in spite of all that passed between us six years ago, that I would be honest with her now.

"Can I come aboard?" she asks then. "I've never seen a starship before. I want to talk to you."

I have known, from the moment the spores left, that she would want this. Leila wants to talk to me about the life we were to share on the doomed planet below us, the life I led her to think we would share. And now I have to see her, to tell her that I am no more free now than I was six years ago. "Are you still at the beam-down point?" I ask. "And is the doctor there?"

I can almost see the slight smile on her face. "Yes, to both questions."

"Give your communicator to Doctor McCoy," I tell her. "You won't need it to beam up. It'll take a few moments, just wait there."

I close the channel. Jim comes up beside me. "Mr Spock," he says, "Miss Kalomi is strictly your concern, but should you talk to her while she's under the influence of the spores?" There is a slight hesitancy to his words, and a gentleness. My captain, my friend, is concerned for me.

I nod slightly. "I'll be back shortly, Captain." A look passes between us, and I know he sees the emotions I will not speak of openly, the sadness and the regret that I have once again hurt her. Six years ago on Earth, I told her I was not free. That the answer has not changed does not make this any easier. In fact, the situation is far more difficult. Six years ago, I had not encouraged her hopes, as I have done only recently.

In the transporter room, I beam her up. She smiles at me, and I feel a strange heaviness in the pit of my stomach.

Once again, I have wronged her.

****

Spock stands there, so still and unmoving, almost like a Vulcan statue. I think he must be playing, acting serious when all he really wants to do is smile. I used to sense that about him when we were on Earth together, that there was a part of him that only wanted to smile and laugh. Well, let's see about that. I wrap my arms around him, and then I know. Something has gone terribly wrong.

"You're no longer with us, are you?" I ask. I step back to stare into his face,

serious and yet not entirely emotionless. "I felt something was wrong."

"It was necessary."

"Come back to the planet with me," I plead. "You can belong again." His expression doesn't move at all. "Come back with me, please."

He shakes his head, and I see something in his eyes. Regret, sadness, some other Vulcan emotion that I don't understand? "I can't," he says simply.

It's the look in his eyes that undoes me, as it did six years ago. I turn away, I won't shame him with my human tears. "I love you," I say. "I said that six years ago and I can't seem to stop repeating myself." The tears are bitter, but I swallow them. It's all I will ever have of him. "On Earth, you couldn't give anything of yourself, couldn't even put your arms around me. We couldn't have anything together there, we couldn't have anything together any place else." I spin around, seeking what, I don't know. "But we're happy here. I can't lose you now, I can't."

But I have already lost him. The tears, thick in my throat, and the sadness in his eyes, are proof of that. "I have a responsibility," he says, with a gentleness I've never heard from him, "to this ship, to that man on the bridge. Spock swallows, the one tell-tale sign of his emotions. I saw him do it on Earth a few times when he felt something his Vulcan training told him he shouldn't feel. "I am what I am, Leila, and if there are self-made purgatories, we all have to live in them. Mine can be no worse than someone else's."

"I have lost you, haven't I?" I ask, though it's perfectly obvious. There's something else, the euphoria, the happiness I felt when the spores touched my mind, is gone. "Not only you, I've lost all of it. The spores, I've lost them too."

Spock nods slightly. "The captain discovered that strong emotions, needs, destroy the spore influence."

I look up to meet his eyes. The pain of losing him again to his duty and the ties that bind him hits me full force. "And this is for my good?" His eyes are haunted, and terribly alone. "Do you mind if I say I still love you?"

He doesn't answer, though I can tell he'd like to. What proper Vulcan answer can there be for what I've told him? I hug him, and I know it's the last time I will ever do that. The walls between us will go up again as they did six years ago. All at once, something I never asked him crosses my mind. It's my last chance to know anything more about this man I have loved and lost. "You never told me if you had another name."

There is a look of such compassion, a gentling of his face, that I almost cry again. One hand brushes the tears from my cheek. "You couldn't pronounce it."

It's the sum of things unknown between us, that statement. There won't be another chance for us now. I don't look back as I return to the colony to prepare for evacuation.

***

I return to my cabin after we leave orbit. There is not, in truth, much else that can be done. The cargo holds are full of the colonists' belongings and equipment, and the colonists themselves are either resting or being treated for the injuries incurred by the numerous altercations from the subsonic transmitter.

I could seek out Leila; it would be easy to find her location among the colonists. But I do not. It would be a great wrong to find her now, a wrong greater than what I have already done to her. Instead of doing any of these things, I prepare for meditation. I am somehow not surprised when the door buzzes. "Come," I say.

I am equally not surprised to find it's Jim who stands there. "How are you doing?" he asks.

There are any number of responses I could make to that so-human question. Almost none of them would be accurate. The only words I can say are what is honest. "Unsettled. And you?"

Jim shrugs. "The same. A natural reaction, I'd say."

I raise one eyebrow. It is still difficult for me to conceive that any emotional reaction is natural, but I also have to concede the truth of what he says. He continues, "Did you mean what you said on the bridge?"

_For the first time in my life, I was happy. _"As I understood the emotion, yes."

Jim smiles then. It's not the professional captain's smile, but another one I have seen, one that he uses when bantering with the doctor or myself. "You know," he says, "when I was a child, I used to think if I could get out into space, I'd be happy. Then later, it was the thought of graduating from Starfleet Academy. Then it was commanding a ship. And finally, it was commanding the Enterprise." He folds his arms. "And I almost left her today for another type of happiness."

It occurs to me that we are much alike in this. I could not stay with the happiness I thought I had found, and he could not leave his. "Yet you stayed."

One hand rests on my shoulder. Not long, but enough for me to feel the reassurance there. "So did you. The point is, Spock, is that it's the journey that's important, not the destination."

After he leaves, I consider his words. Though Leila and I are on separate journeys now, it is perhaps better that way. It could not have been otherwise.

As I close my eyes for meditation, my eyes rest on the bell banner.

THE END.


	9. Tell Me of Vulcan

**Intermission 9: Tell Me of Vulcan**

Disclaimer: Aaack, okay, ParaBorg wins. They own everything. I own this story, a whopping student load debt and a rather vocal cat named Sochi. Okay to post at ASC or archive, all others, please ask. Thanks to T'Thelaih for once again beta reading at the speed of email :O) All creative content (c) 2009 by Aliset

Summary: From "The Man Trap," where Uhura asks Spock about Vulcan's moon.

Rating: PG, TOS, 1/1

---///---

It's deadly quiet on the bridge. And it's making me nervous. Very nervous. It's probably what Chris Chapel calls "spacer's sense," the intuition that anyone develops who lives out in space.

I look over my shoulder at Spock, who is also nervous, though he hides it well. We're nervous for the same reason, he and I: on a ship notorious for "routine" missions that are anything but, our captain is on the planet below…for a routine mission. Medical exams of an archaological expeditions aren't exactly known for their danger. But we _are_ on the Enterprise.

Right now, Spock is going over the end-of-the-month reports, the reports the captain would willingly dump out the nearest airlock if they weren't required by regulations. It's tedious work, peppered only by the occasional bickering between the departments. Medicine wants this piece of equipment, but Engineering "can't afford the drain on the parts bank." I hear it all, but fortunately, I only have to deal with my own department.

Spock doesn't have that option. As First Officer and Science Officer, he has to handle it. The bickering between the various departments isn't too tough for him solve; it takes a man like Dr McCoy to willingly argue with him, that's for sure. But the reports still have to be compiled for the captain's signature, and that's what Spock, for lack of anything more interesting to do, is doing now. "Miss Uhura," he says now, "your last subspace log contained an error in the frequency column."

I remember that report. It had taken me two days, multiple cups of coffee and one massive headache to get it done. Starfleet was testing a new communications chip in my console, and they needed a full review of its performance. "Mr Spock," I say, coming to stand beside him where he sits uneasily in the captain's chair, "sometimes if I hear 'frequency' once more, I'll cry."

The look of alarm that flits across his features almost makes me laugh. Poor soul, he doesn't quite get it. "Cry?" he asks.

I laugh slightly. "I was just trying to start a conversation."

He returns his attention to his report, then looks back at me. "Well, since it is illogical for a communications officer to resent the word 'frequency,' I have no answer."

"Oh, you have an answer," I say wryly. "I'm an illogical woman who's beginning to feel too much a part of that communications console." He breathes out, considering. How confusing this all must be for him even now, a lone Vulcan on a ship full of illogical humans. We've bantered like this before, in the Rec Room, but some perverse impulse---and probably the extreme boredom of a routine mission---makes me continue. "Why don't you tell me I'm an attractive young lady, or ask me if I've ever been in love. Tell me how your planet Vulcan looks on a lazy evening when the moon is full." I watch as he nervously runs one finger around the collar of his uniform shirt. No, he doesn't get it at all.

Finally Spock looks at me, the seriousness of his face belied by the twinkle in his eye. "Miss Uhura," he says slowly, "Vulcan has no moon."

"Mr Spock," I say, grinning, "I'm not surprised."

The incoming hail whistles, breaking the mood. I've got a bad feeling about this; an incoming hail so soon after beam-down is never good. "Enterprise, landing party returning. We report one death."

Spock punches the button on the captain's chair. "Bridge, acknowledged."

Just like that, a man is dead, and it could be anyone. Our routine mission has, once again, turned deadly. And Spock sits there like a statue. I turn back to him. "I don't believe it."

"Explain," he says, and the clipped tone of his words is a warning.

"You explain," I reply. Damn him, how can he ignore this? "That means someone is dead, and you just sit there. It could be Captain Kirk and he's the closest thing you have to a friend."

His head turns slightly, and I know my comment hit home. An illogical comment, surely, and one I shouldn't have said aloud. The fear is one we all face every day we live out here, that one random accident will kill or maim a friend or a lover. But I shouldn't have made him face it here, on the bridge. And I can't call the words back now. "Lieutenant," he says, "my emotional reaction will not change what has happened. The transporter room is very well manned and they will call me if they need my assistance." His words are flat, the kind of clipped phrasing I've heard only rarely, when Dr McCoy has pushed him too hard.

As I have just done. I turn away, kicking myself for what I've just said. What did I truly expect, that he would react as a human would? That he would show grief or fear or unease? He's not human, not fully, and I wouldn't have talked that way to Captain Kirk.

Maybe I'm the one who doesn't understand.

THE END.

Well, folks, this is the end of the series (for now.) Hope you enjoyed it--I can't promise that there will be any more coming, but you just never know. :)


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